Beneath Honor's Veil
by NoSoundComes
Summary: A knight and a healer find their paths intertwined when they take up arms against the Blackwood Company. But honor and justice are hardly black and white, and even the noblest of hearts can be tempted by the sweetness of revenge.
1. Prologue

_Author's Note: There are two things I always loved about TES that I felt never got enough attention: the Fighters Guild, and the Bosmer. What better way to take my first step into the fanfiction community than by remedying this?_

_Well, all right, so the Bosmer get attention enough and I just wanted a shameless excuse to write a few, but the Fighters Guild? Honestly, there are so many great personalities in the Guild, and their story is fantastic, but they somehow hardly get the attention they deserve. I was sad to find only a handful (albeit lovely lot) of stories about them. So step down, Dark Brotherhood, and move aside, Martin – it's time to let someone else into the spotlight. This is my first time writing a story and I'm not entirely sure how it will go, but hopefully you will enjoy it._

_Happy reading!_

* * *

Prologue

A Disagreeable Arrangement

It was no less miserable in Castle Bruma than it was outside. The lofty interior of the main hall did little to maintain the heat of a few measly fires, and the castle barracks were no better. Not only was it just as cold, but it was smoky inside from the room's fireplace, the thick gray cloud hanging just above the heads of the guards. They seemed blissfully ignorant of it, but not Brodras. Even though he was considerably shorter than all of them and thus spared from the worst of the smoke, his eyes stung something awful and he found himself blinking furiously. It at least distracted him from how cold he was, but as tears threatened to roll down his cheeks he decided he would much rather be shivering like an idiot than crying like one. Before he rounded the corner to face the voices on the other side, he brought his fingers to his eyes and rubbed the droplets away.

The room was full of gruff and dirty guards lingering between shifts, some sleeping in beds in the corner and a vast majority discussing the day over tankards of ale and mead. The Bosmer shuffled past them with only a polite nod, trying hard to keep his sore blue eyes on the yellow uniform of the man that led him through the scene. He knew the Imperials and Nords would only be all too eager to gawk stupidly at a Wood Elf in a near full suit of iron armor, and despite his knowing this it didn't make their stares any less irritating. Expecting the tree branch to break does not make it hurt less when you hit the ground, his grandfather always said. And he was right, of course. No one expected a Bosmer to be good at anything other than sneaking through the shadows and sniping over vast distances with painful accuracy, all of which Brodras could do – and quite well, he thought, but that was beside the point, which was that no one expected to see a Bosmer waltzing around in heavy armor, much less waltzing around with efficiency. When Brodras passed through the wooden door at long last it took all the strength he had to withhold the relieved sigh that rolled up into his lungs. The guard pointed wordlessly toward another, seated behind a table in the middle of the room, and closed the door behind him.

Brodras ran a hand over his oil slicked hair, straightened the belt through which his scabbard was looped, and lifted his stubble covered chin high. He approached the guard with proud steps and waited for him to raise his eyes from the book on the desk in front of him.

"Good evening, citizen," he said. "What can I do for you?"

The Bosmer nodded politely. "I'm here to visit a prisoner." He paused. "And possibly pay for their release."

The guard's face instantly transformed into an expression of utter displeasure. "Oh," he muttered dully. "I don't suppose you're here for that Wood Elf girl?" He leaned closer to Brodras with a cautious frown. "You family?"

Brodras, with only a second's worth of hesitation, let his lips turn with a frown of his own. "No," he said, truthfully. He left it at that and maintained his silence as the guard gave him a quick once over, responding only with a tight knotting at the corners of his square chin.

Whatever he was looking for Brodras didn't know, but the Imperial eased back in his chair and shifted his attention to opening a drawer in the desk. "Very well then." He stood, fumbling with a key ring as he made his way toward a door at the end of the room. With one long slender key in the doorknob, he turned to Brodras, who was standing with a blank expression a few steps behind. "I have to remind you not to get too close to the prisoners – " He coughed, muttering under his breath something that Brodras thought was _Especially this one. _" – and that prisoners cannot accept bribes or gifts."

"Understood," said Brodras.

"Very good. And make it quick, citizen."

The door swung open, and the Bosmer followed the guard down a long descent of steps. The room at the bottom was large, colder than the one upstairs, and reeked of mold and dampness and something that Brodras was not entirely sure he wanted to correctly identify. His stout pointed nose crinkled instantly. The guard turned to him with a curiously amused expression, likely because he was so pitifully used to the offending odors that he forgot just how horrible they were. He pointed toward a prison cell a few feet on the left and offered him a curt nod.

Brodras took a daring inhale and approached the door, stopping a few feet before it. The space inside was large and seemingly quite empty, but tucked away in the corner was the prisoner he had come all this way for. She was sitting cross legged atop a dirty bedroll, idly tracing patterns on the floor with a twig. A long strand of copper hair trailed from the nape of her neck to her elbows, and it gracefully reflected every ray of yellow light from the torch high above her head. The rest of her tiny frame was covered in grimy cloth clothes that he suspected had seen several bodies other than her own. Not that he wanted to think about that, so he forced the thought away. He waited only a few seconds before he rattled his knuckles against the bars.

She turned about with a curious and cautious raise of her dark eyebrows, but upon seeing who it was her lips turned with a sour pucker. "Oh, it's _you_," she hissed. "What are _you _doing _here_?"

Brodras remained sorely unamused. "Come now, _sweetheart_," he chided, "aren't you going to get up and welcome me?"

She scrambled to her feet, but not before chucking her twig toward the barred door. It was a throw made with passion instead of skill, and Brodras, with his hardened combat senses, didn't so much as flinch as it clattered harmlessly to the floor. The guard behind him stepped forward, but the Bosmer turned to him with a dismissing wave.

The Imperial stopped, but not without turning a stern glare to the girl. "You behave yourself, criminal scum, or we'll double your fine."

"Got what was coming to you, did you?" muttered Brodras to her.

The girl's green eyes flashed burning hate into his. She folded her arms tight across her chest. "Come all the way from Leyawiin to mock me, did you?" She tutted. "Typical, Brodras. Just go back to your disease ridden swamp."

He glared at her for a long moment before turning his body round to face the guard, who looked unprofessionally disgusted by the whole affair. "Exactly how much is her bounty?"

The guard barked an abrupt and agitated laugh. "You really want to set this monster free?" he dubiously asked.

Brodras' brow wrinkled in frustration.

The man shook his head. "Very well," he said, hooking his thumbs through his belt. "It's 750 septims."

The Bosmer's brown eyes nearly popped out of his head. He glanced over his shoulder at the girl, who responded by spitting out her tongue. "Seven hundred – by the Nine! What did you do?"

"Believe me, citizen, that's a modest number," muttered the guard. "For starters, she stole a horse from the Chestnut Handy Stables in the Imperial City. That mightn't have been so bad, except she escaped before the guard could catch up. Might have gotten away with it, too, but a sharp legionnaire spotted her on the road. He attempted to apprehend her, but then she stole _his_ horse and rode away!"

Brodras turned toward the girl with a deep frown, but she merely continued pouting silently.

"Would you believe he chased her all the way to Bruma? Because he did, and only then did we manage to apprehend her and return the horse. And the story ought to stop there, but no – little monster had to put up a fight and bite one of the guardsmen!"

"Eight and one," muttered Brodras, who had since brought his hand to his face.

The guard snorted. "Were it up to me, I'd let her rot in here," he said distastefully. "But Captain Burd insisted otherwise."

Brodras sighed, rubbing his forehead in a vain attempt to prevent the headache he knew would soon plague him on the long ride back to Leyawiin. He ran his palm over his dark hair and wrapped it around the back of his neck. "How many days does she have left to serve?" he inquired.

The guard pursed his lips as he glanced thoughtfully into the distance. "I'd say about another week and three days." He paused patiently as the iron clad Bosmer made a frustrated noise. "Quite frankly I can't stand the sight of the beast, so what say you, then, citizen?"

Brodras shook his head and turned his back completely on the girl, wasting no time in his accession back up the stairs. "You'd best fetch her belongings, sir," he said.

The girl made a panicked noise. "I'm not going anywhere with _him_," she hissed. Her yells echoed off the walls in vain, because Brodras did not bother to look back. "I'd rather rot in this cell. Do you hear me? _Rot_!"

He waited near the desk as the guard gathered a small pile of clothes from a chest in the corner and disappeared back down the stairs with them. Several minutes later the female elf reappeared, dressed in a rough leather cuirass and boots, a pair of black pants, and one of the most hateful frowns Brodras had ever seen. The guard had not yet released her from her wrist irons, and did not until they were outside the castle. He and two others watched her with stern precaution as she grabbed a dagger from his hands and buckled it neatly at her side. Brodras, with his wallet significantly lighter than when he arrived, offered them a kind nod before ushering the girl through the gates and toward the stables.

Neither spoke on the journey through the streets of Bruma. They did not so much as look at the other as they made the journey side by side, she with one hand firmly on her blade's hilt. Eventually she must have realized that her leather armor was no match for his iron set, nor would her dagger be any use against his sword, and she instead let her hands ball into tight fists at her side. The night was utterly oblivious to the animosity that might have very well melted everything in their wake; it passed on calm and peaceful around them, a perfect winter night, with fat snowflakes falling from the sky to stick stubbornly to their eyelashes.

It was not until they were a safe distance from the guard outside the gate that Brodras noticed the tensing in her legs. Before she could react he reached forward and grasped her forearm with force much stronger than he intended. "No you don't," he hissed.

Her green eyes met his brown, and they stared with all the intensity of a raging fire as she struggled against his hold. "Let me go," she ordered.

"No," he replied, pulling her toward him. "Listen to me, Faralen – "

She wasn't interested, he gathered, because before he could finish her palm landed smartly against his cheek with a hideous smack that echoed on the Bruma foothills. Despite himself he let his face turn with the force, his fingers loosening as his skin burned hot. Brodras turned his attention back to her just as she yanked back her arm and took two steps backward in the snow.

He brought his fingertips to his cheek. "That was uncalled for," he snapped.

Faralen scoffed. "You know what's uncalled for, Brodras? You pulling me out of that dungeon."

"You're right," Brodras chided with a snarl. "Forgive me for rescuing your ungrateful hide from something that you brought solely upon yourself. What are you doing, Faralen? I had thought everything about you was a lie, but this – "

Her cheeks turned a furious shade of red as she shook her fists in frustration. "_This_ doesn't involve _you_!"

Brodras rolled his eyes. "Yes, it does. You're angry, though why I don't know. I'll have you know I wouldn't marry you if there were no other women on Nirn...Orcs included." She looked deeply insulted, and he savored that fact in a secret and dark corner of his heart. "But there are better ways to rebel against your father than thieving."

Faralen snorted, placing her hands on her hips. "Oh, yes," she muttered. "Like adorning yourself in the most ridiculous set of armor you can find and running away with the Fighters Guild to get yourself killed, no?"

It was Brodras' turn to fume. He did so silently, forcing the anger to stay hidden within the maddening pulse of his veins.

Faralen, however, was relentless. She brushed away a wayward strand of copper hair and pointed a finger at him. "You don't care if I rot," she yelled. "The only reason you came to get me was so Baenlin didn't find out and go squabbling to my father to make _you _look bad. Can't have your fiance on the wrong side of the law, can we?"

"That's not – "

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "Oooh! Shut up, would you?"

He obliged, watching as she turned her back to him and glanced toward the Jerall Mountains, the tops of which disappeared into the snowy horizon. For a long moment the two Bosmer stood there in silence. Brodras studied her long trail of hair and thought briefly of strangling her with it, folding and unfolding his hands into tense fists. Eventually he looked away, resting one hand on the hilt of his sword.

"I'm not going to tell anyone what happened here this evening," he finally said. "I managed to get here quickly, so your father should never hear about this."

Faralen did not move.

Brodras shifted his frown from one cheek to the other. "I don't want to go through with this anymore than you do," he continued sternly. "Which is why I came to you with a plan."

She looked at him from over her shoulder, looking slightly more curious than agitated – but only slightly.

Brodras rolled his eyes, lifting his palm in dismissal. "Look. I don't care how you decide to avoid your father, but for your own sake, do it in a manner that won't completely ruin the life you have ahead of you. We may have different ideas about happiness, but I assure you that you won't find yours in a dark, stinking prison cell."

She did not move. He wasn't even sure if she had heard, but he didn't care. The cold had snuck under his armor and was clinging tightly to his bones; his temples pounded with frustration. He thought of giving up and returning to Leyawiin without much more thought, but at long last Faralen turned about, her arms folded tightly across her chest, and regarded him with her fierce green eyes.

"I'm listening," she said cautiously.

"Good," replied Brodras, and with a deep sigh he explained what had to be done.


	2. One: In the Champion's Shadow

_Author's Note:__ I know visiting a story does not necessarily mean you read it, but I received a pleasantly large number of passers-by. A special thank you to anyone who added it to their alerts or took the time to review. It's very interesting to hear what you think (especially about the Bosmer characters) and as a first time writer I do appreciate it. You all had me smiling!_

_I originally planned to start the story much further into the Fighters Guild storyline, but for some reason this chapter just demanded to be written as it is here. So it goes; you cannot long fight the will of the muses. I would like to know your opinion, as readers, on chapter length. I personally won't write chapters longer than this, although I do think it would be possible to break them into smaller sections if they seem too wordy. If you would let me know your thoughts on this, it would be useful. Otherwise, happy reading!_

* * *

Chapter One

In the Champion's Shadow

It is a common misconception that the saying "an Imperial city never sleeps" refers to two types of people. There are the citizens who retreat from the daylight to the dreamworld and know not of the night's secrets, and the citizens who wake from slumber's grasp to brave the shadows and know nothing but secrets. There are those, too, who walk the fine line between these separate spheres, but so wary of a misstep and such masters of illusion are they that they are of no consequence to those who prefer to define the world by opposites like night and day, right and wrong, black and white.

If one considers this, it would seem as suitable a reason as any for why the three bandits waited until the lighthouse flames burned bright to creep down the docks of the Anvil Waterfront. They meandered past the drunken sailors who were too preoccupied to care as they vanished, unbidden and undisturbed, behind the locked door of Lelles' Quality Merchandise.

Unfortunately for them, the truth is the world is much more complicated, and there are only two types of people in the city: those who sleep, and those who do not. On that muggy night, and much to the bandits' dismay, they encountered an Imperial who found himself a member of the latter. He alone emerged a half hour later as the victor of what had transpired inside.

The sailors did notice him, if only because he interrupted their brawl by gathering a few members of the Anvil watch. They appeared none too satisfied by the hour, the task at hand, or the sailors, all of whom had by now decided they did not much like the young man. The Imperial paid them no mind. His heart was still beating wildly in his chest, his veins filled with the burning ache of adrenaline that threatened to usurp the calm workings of a mind reminding him he had a procedure to follow. On top of that he did not think that the merchant would appreciate returning to such a gruesome scene as a disheveled store, decorated by the lifeless and bloody bodies of said bandits. He also felt that, criminals or not, they ought to receive a decent burial, and it was his duty as a member of the faithful to see that this would be the case. He patiently answered the guards' questions before excusing himself from the scene.

The Imperial seemed a curious sight beneath the waning moonlight of Masser and Secunda. As a port city Anvil received its fair share of travelers from all across Tamriel, though it was not often that one encountered anyone like this bearded Imperial, a longsword hanging prominently at his hip, in the middle of the night. The steel armor that made his silhouette overbearing against the glittering horizon shined dimly in the light, a telltale sign of metal that was worn by age and use, worked and reworked under heat and hammer. He settled himself at the edge of an empty pier, letting a lone foot dangle lazily above the rolling waves of the Abecean Sea as it tugged and pulled at the shores of Cyrodiil. A few of the most drunken sailors thought briefly of sending him on his way with bruises on his pretty face, but it was quickly decided that perhaps he was not a man to be trifled with. In any case the guards were now alert and standing outside the door of Lelles' store, precariously close to them and very likely not interested in whatever rowdiness they had in mind.

The Imperial, ignorant that he had been spared, shuffled his fingers through wavy chestnut hair that ended abruptly at the nape of his neck and was now slick with humidity, sweat, and the splattering of blood. Or at least it seemed very plausible to him that there would be blood, and he was only partially certain that it was not his. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, whispering a quiet invocation to Stendarr and hoping that the god would not tire of his increasingly frequent requests for guidance.

"...and grant me mercy on the road to righteousness..."

He was stirred from his meditation by a cool breeze that drifted north from the rolling hills of Valenwood, to which he turned his attention. They rose as dark shadows in the distance across the Strid River, their outlines barely visible to his grey eyes in the predawn darkness. A deep inhalation of salt air and cedar forest filled his lungs and was released slowly through his nose. Content, he reached into the pockets of his trousers and pulled forth a pear, held it up between a cradle of his thumb and two fingers, and proceeded to bite into it with a satisfying murmur.

He remained as so until the sailors sobered up and the first hints of rosy dawn flickered overhead. The Imperial was tilting his pear between his fingers, attempting to devise a strategic way to finish what was left in one bite, when he heard the sound of footsteps on the wooden planks behind him. He shifted. It was sudden; the pear tumbled carelessly from his hand into the water below with a hallow _plunk_. He glanced down at it with a frown before shuffling to his feet, as gracefully as one might expect for a man in steel armor, and turned to face the approaching guardsmen with a respectful nod of his head.

The two men stopped a short distance from him. One was juggling a torch in one hand and a bottle of ink, a battered quill, and a bundle of papers in the other. His partner held only a few sheets of parchment, which he shuffled about carefully.

"Looks like everything is taken care of for Norbert Lelles," he said to the Imperial, who looked much relieved. "It would appear that these fellows weren't first time offenders. Quite a shame, really, but it looks like Anvil should be quiet again thanks to you." He glanced from the Imperial to the papers and back again. "Salvius, is it?"

The Imperial rapped his fist firmly against his chest. "Yes, Salvius Tullius," he said.

The guard nodded in approval. He shuffled the papers one last time before selecting two for Salvius, who plucked them from his grasp. "Very good. We're done here, Salvius Tullius. Let the guild know that you did good work, and the Watch appreciates their assistance in keeping the streets of Anvil safe. Farewell, citizen."

"Farewell," replied Salvius, although the two guardsmen had already started their descent down the pier. He lowered his eyes to the papers in his hand and surveyed them without any real interest before starting toward the harborside himself.

With only a passing glance toward the sign that read "Lelles' Quality Mercandise," Salvius carried himself through the old, creaky door of The Flowing Bowl. Even at this early hour the tavern smelt of sweaty sailors and old ale, a combination of which remained huddled at a table in the corner, uninterested in Salvius' entrance. A tall Nord woman with large breasts and dark lips batted her eyelashes at him with a coy smile, beckoning at something deep within him, but he ignored her with a tiny frown. He remained near the entrance, his head held high, and let his gaze fall over the brightly lit room.

Eventually it stumbled upon Norbert Lelles himself. His stout form sat on a stool before the Bosmer publican, idly drying a stack of clay plates with only one of his large pointed ears focused on the merchant. He was rambling aimlessly about something Salvius could neither entirely make out nor, having been previously acquainted with the man, was entirely certain he wanted to. Norbet was kind, but it was no secret that there were goblins sharper than him – although they likely couldn't run a better store even with Divine aid. He hoped to interrupt and then be on his way, but the sound of the Imperial's heavy boots against the floor as he neared alerted the merchant to his approach. He excused himself from his one sided conversation and turned about to face him, a nervous smile forming beneath his thick nose.

"Greetings!" the Breton exclaimed. "Were you able to take care of my problem with the break-ins?"

Salvius offered one of the papers in his hand to Norbert with a gentle nod. "You don't have anything to worry about, sir," he said with a reassuring smile. "It's safe for you to run your business as usual."

Norbert's narrow eyes widened with excitement. "You've gotten them?" he asked.

He nodded again.

The shopkeeper let out a relieved chuckle, leaping up from the stool and shaking the paper in his hand. "Wonderful! Positively wonderful!" He offered Salvius a cheerful pat on the chest, forcing the Imperial to resist the urge to take a step back, but then his face twisted with confusion. He lowered his eyes to the paper. Salvius watched, his brow furrowing in concern as the man reread the Watch's notes. "Oh. But...their names are familiar to me."

Salvius, who felt something ought to be said, could only manage to reply, "Is that so?"

Norbert let his gaze drift to the side as he searched the depths of his mind for why this might be. After a short moment he stumbled across it and gazed up at the Imperial with a look of astonishment. "All of those men have worked for me," he murmured. "Amazing. I even trusted them to open up the shop in the mornings. I can't imagine what turned them to a life of crime." He looked down. "Sad."

There was something genuine and troubled about the twist at the corners of his lips. Salvius observed the turmoil milling behind Norbert's dark eyes before reaching out to rest a hand gently against his shoulder. When the Breton lifted his head he once again offered him a reassuring smile. "It's all right, Norbert," he gently said. "You couldn't have known that they wouldn't make the right decisions in life. You've done all you can; now it's time for the Nine to judge them accordingly."

Norbert considered this before releasing a little sigh. He shivered slightly, as if magically dispelling the emotions that previously troubled him, and searched the purse at his waist with a smile. "Well," he chimed, slipping a small pouch into Salvius' palm, "I suppose you're right. I do look forward to feeling safer. Here's your payment."

It was a modest sum and felt light in his hand, but Salvius smiled kindly and carefully folded his fingers around the pouch's fabric. "Thank you. I'll see to it that someone from the Fighters Guild stops by in a few weeks to see how things are, if that's all right with you?"

"Oh, thank you," said Norbert, sheepishly lifting a hand as the Imperial started to turn. "Take care, Salvius. I hope to see you again soon."

"Not too soon, I hope" is what Salvius thought of saying, but he decided that it would be best to simply leave the merchant with a smile. He stepped out onto the planks and watched protectively as Norbert passed by on his way to his store, his gaze never wavering until the man disappeared behind the door and it remained closed for several moments. When he finally felt satisfied that all was well he let his muscles relax beneath the weight of steel and sweat. In the distance, the bells of Dibella's chapel swung into their first song.

Salvius lowered his gaze and carefully surveyed the pouch of septims in his hand. He folded his fingers tight against his palm one by one, taking a moment to examine the grime beneath his short nails. With only a quick glance over the billowing sails of ships large and small and the first stirs of another noisy morning on the Waterfront, he left behind the sprawling blue Abecean and disappeared through the large wooden doors into the city streets of Anvil.

* * *

There had been a time when Salvius Tullius thought he would be a farmer.

He never thought there was anything wrong with that. It had been his father's dream to be a farmer, because farming, as he said, was good honest work, and good honest work kept a man out of trouble and mischief. That was the problem with the Empire these days, he lamented; there was too much trouble and mischief and not enough good honest work. Some part of Salvius thought that he didn't really mean it – not in a bad way, at least – because it seemed strange for a member of the Imperial Legion to think that way about the Empire. Once a younger Salvius had gathered the courage to remark on that to his father, and the man smiled and took him onto his knee and said, "Well, son, loyalty is not black and white. But farming is. You remember that."

It wasn't easy to remember something that he didn't quite understand, but he did, even after his father left with the Legion for Morrowind. It never did him any good though, partially because he still didn't understand, and partially because it turned out Salvius was not a farmer, nor would he ever be one. Farming was for simpletons without any real purpose, his uncle told him, which he was not and never would be if he had anything to do with it; and given that Salvius' father never returned, he had everything to do with it.

Then there came the time when Salvius Tullius thought he would be a legionnaire.

It had been his uncle's intention that he was to follow in his father's footsteps. On his uncle's lips it was poetic and grand, and it dawned on the young boy like a glorious dream that he himself had dreamt up. For a long time he felt with all his heart that he truly wanted to be a legionnaire even more so than he had once wanted to be a farmer. Salvius allowed his uncle to take him from his once beloved Kvatch and educate him on the things he claimed an Imperial knight did. He learned to swing his father's silver sword with impressive ease and accuracy, as if he had grown up holding it and not a hoe. He grew strong enough to wear his father's old armor, which he had spent so many restless nights idolizing that he was almost too afraid to try it on when the day finally came that he could. He knew all about the armorer's challenge, the Warp in the West, and the finer points of mace etiquette, and that one should politely bow their head when passing another on the street and clean the dirt from under his nails.

Though it came to pass that one could not look at grey eyed Salvius and think that he knew anything of cabbage and soil and bleating baby lambs, it turned out that he was not a knight in the Imperial Legion. There was something about the painful look on his mother's face when she saw him in her beloved husband's armor, something that stayed with him throughout the years and still made him feel ill.

"This was good enough for your father," she had said, extending her hand to the fields that rolled over the hills of the Gold Coast. "He knew the truth about fighting and this is what he chose. You remember that."

He did remember, and it haunted his dreams like a curse from the Daedric Prince Vaermina.

But something changed inside of Salvius the day he first felt the weight of his father's armor on his shoulders and the cold feel of his sword within his grasp. It had been subtle at first, the lightest touch of Stendarr, a trickle of excitement that poured from his heart like a peaceful stream. There was to be no denying it in the desolate years that followed, when his uncle sold the farm and the excitement became a river and Salvius, neither a farmer nor a legionnaire, very well imagined that the Nine might insist that he have been nothing at all.

Salvius only needed the money. He might even say that he enjoyed it, too, though that was a secret tucked away in his heart. But it was entirely certain to everyone, including a Wood Elf with a curiously keen eye for armor, that he was born with particular potential.

That is how the Imperial found himself standing in the shadow of the Anvil Fighters Guild, thankful for a brief respite from the muggy heat of Rain's Hand. He paused against the warm grey stone of the building's entrance, gazing up at the red banners that had long since become his beacon pointing home as they flickered in a breeze so gentle it seemed like a sigh from Dibella herself. With a small smile Salvius pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The guild hall had not yet stirred to life. The main room remained empty, the weapons untouched in the racks along the walls; the training dummy in the middle looked particularly grateful for the lull in practices that left their marks on every inch of its wooden limbs. Salvius descended down the stone steps slowly, listening to the silence that lingered beneath the four short clanks of his boots against the floor. He did not have to wait long for the balding porter to emerge from the next room. A smile appeared on his face when he saw Salvius lift his palm in greeting.

"Ah! Good morning, Apprentice," he said, moving aside to make way for the Imperial as he stepped under the archway between the two rooms. "I take it that your contract went well?"

"Quite well," replied Salvius. He unhooked his sword from around his waist and handed it to the Breton. "Is Azzan awake?"

"Yes, he's in the company office upstairs. He asked that you see him straight away when you've returned – something about guild business, I believe." The porter unsheathed Salvius' sword several inches from its scabbard, tilting it so that the silver gleamed in the light. He nodded, though Salvius expected it was more to himself than to the Imperial. "This could be sharpened," he mused. "I'll see to it that it's taken care of while you speak with him."

Salvius clapped him on the pauldron and nodded in thanks, a motion the porter mimicked in reply as the Imperial vanished up the stairs. He was nearly at the top when the ache of his limbs beneath his heavy armor, coupled with the thought of his bed in the sleeping quarters adjacent to the main foyer, inspired the first tug of sleep to rise on the corner of his consciousness. He reached his hand behind his neck and slipped his fingers under the steel, grunting as they released a knot from his shoulder.

The Imperial shook his head and pulled his lips into a tight frown. _Working without so much as a wink of sleep! You're a foolish Colovian through and through, _he lectured himself. _Fools make mistakes – remember that._

He sprinted up the last several stairs, noisily emerging into the dining room on the second floor. His entrance earned him a cautious look from the dog near the fireplace, who regarded him with a single bark as Salvius glanced at the bowls of fruit gathered on the tabletop. The dog stared, its limbs tense, until the man crossed the room and bent down to scratch the fur between his ears. Satisfied at last, the creature lowered his head back down against his paws and permitted Salvius to continue up another flight of stairs to the company office.

He paused before the door at the top and knocked twice before continuing inside. The room was large and cool, filled with the smell of old books and a vase of white flowers freshly picked from the meadows beyond Anvil's shores. Salvius inhaled deeply and thought fleetingly of home.

At the far end of the room sat a Redguard, scratching a quill across a pile of papers on the desk he sat behind and looking hardly amused by whatever they contained. The dark orbs of his irises lifted to examine Salvius as he clicked the door shut behind him. The man eased back in his chair with a gentle _thunk_ of his steel armor, offering the Imperial a polite and authoritative smile as he crossed the space between them in a few long strides.

Salvius waited wordlessly as the Redguard reached across the dark wooden surface to drop his quill into a jar of ink. He drew the sheet of parchment to his lips and blew on the writing until its swooping lines ceased to reflect the candlelight at his side. "Did you take care of that contract, Salvius?" he asked between breaths.

"Yes, sir," said Salvius. He watched the man place his parchment on the top of a pile in the corner of his desk before offering him the one he had gathered earlier from the Anvil watch. "Norbert Lelles won't have any more problems."

Azzan read the paper carefully before discarding it. He glanced up at Salvius with a satisfied smile. "I didn't think you would have any difficulty," he told the younger man as he pulled open a drawer in his desk and retrieved a jingling pouch from within, "and I am glad to see that I was right. Good work, Salvius. Here's your payment."

"Thank you, sir." He weighed the pouch in his hand and examined it curiously, which did not go unnoticed by his superior, who met his confused look with an amused grin. "This seems a bit much for a simple contract."

Azzan nodded, tenting his dark fingers over a bundle of disheveled papers closest to him, atop which Salvius' new addition rested. "Perhaps, but I know most of your guild brothers would call fighting bandits in such a tiny space anything but simple," he mused. He shifted his hand. "You've come a long way since you first came to us, Salvius, and I think you modest enough for me to be honest with you."

The Imperial only returned his stare, unperturbed by Azzan's thoughtful pause as his eyes searched his face for the validity of the statement.

"You're a good man, and a good fighter. It's been a long time since this place has seen anyone with your confidence. The guild could use more people like you." He paused again, allowing Salvius a moment for the words to sink in. "Which is precisely why I'm promoting you to Journeyman."

Salvius blinked furiously. "Journeyman?" He lowered his eyes to his feet and then promptly lifted them again. "I'm honored, sir."

"As you should be," replied Azzan, with a curious grin at the corner of his large lips. "It's been a long time since I've had the honor of promoting someone of your caliber."

"But that's not what you wanted to discuss with me, is it?"

The Redguard gave a low chuckle and flattened his fingers, bringing his palm down loudly against his desk. "That's what I like about you, Salvius," he said as he lifted himself up from his chair. "You're sharp as an ogre's teeth. Nothing gets by you."

Salvius, with a dubious grin, murmured, "Ah, well, thank you...I suppose."

Azzan smiled. He folded his hands behind his back and stepped over to the shield and dual swords that hung upon the southern wall, heavier than any current member of the guild could hope to lift. Rays of sunlight from the narrow window high above and the red tapestry behind him illuminated the outline of his strong, round features with thick golden strokes. He shifted just enough for his eyes to look upon the Journeyman, who remained in place with respectful patience.

When he spoke at last, it was with a deep and serious tone that reminded Salvius briefly of the roaring sea. "You're needed in Chorrol, Journeyman. Report to Vilena Donton."

There was a small moment of silence as Salvius turned the name over in his mind, wondering why it seemed so familiar. He blinked again. "Vilena – the Guildmaster, sir?"

"That's right," said Azzan. "She's got some duties for you to take care of."

Despite himself, Salvius stood there with an unsure expression on his face, looking something like a dumbfounded slaughterfish caught in a fisherman's net. This amused Azzan greatly, serious though he tried to remain, but the younger man was oblivious to this. He was too busy wondering why _he _had been called upon to perform duties for the guild when there were others ranked higher, much higher. What had he done to gain such praise – solved rat problems and saved unfortunate shopkeepers?

He felt quite determined to come up with an answer, but instead he heard the Guardian's voice penetrate through his thoughts. "If you leave today and head up through the Imperial Reserve, you can be there in two days."

"Oh," said Salvius, stirring to resume his calm expression. He placed his hand against his chest and bowed his head. "Of course, sir. I'll leave straight away."

"Good." Azzan gave him a nod and stood his ground as the Imperial retreated out of the room. He called out to him, saying, "Take care, Journeyman, and safe travels."

"Thank you, sir," was all Salvius said before he disappeared behind the wooden door. Then and only then did Azzan the Redguard allow his brow to furrow and brought his fingers to his chin in a thoughtful tug. He did not waver from his spot as there he stood, trapped in the realm of his own wandering thoughts, while below him the guild stirred to life with a thundering din. By the time he emerged and returned to his desk, Salvius had disappeared on horseback into the rolling foothills and tall golden grasses of the western coast, the sun high and hot against his back.

* * *

Modryn Oreyn hated three things with particular disdain.

The first was formality. It was not that he did not respect the usefulness of an unwritten set of social rules and obligations, but he was not the sort of mer to take much stock in beating around the bush, especially when it was easier to storm right through it with one's mace held high. Tactfulness was not his strong point, but tactfulness had not gotten him past the sweat and blood to achieve the rank of Champion.

The second was new recruits. The guild couldn't exist without them, true, but that didn't mean he had to like them. If anyone asked him about it, it was his opinion that liking never did them much good. The Fighters Guild was no place for baby faced men and women who thought their ability to wave a weapon would bring them fame and fortune. That was what the Legion was for, was it not? Too many misguided, would-be warriors wandered into guild halls every day only to end up dead another, which didn't leave him much time to become acquainted with them anyhow. That had once been a fact of life the old Dunmer could accept. Now it just annoyed him.

The third was finding someone else to do a job already assigned to some useless fetcher who decided halfway through that he didn't want to complete it anymore. Modryn did not need to have the Redoran sense of duty to know that defaulting on a contract – a _simple contract_, of all things – was very likely the most dishonorable thing a person could do. Never mind how bad it made the guild look. That ought to have been the sensible conclusion in every part of Tamriel, or so he had wrongly assumed. The guild be damned; this was about character, which it seemed was lacking around here as of late, and painfully so. It only made him angrier, if such a thing were possible, and the others had spent the entire week very obviously placing a thoughtful amount of distance between themselves and him as if he were Red Mountain, trembling and fuming and ready to erupt.

It seemed an awful shame, then, that he woke that morning having to deal with all three before lunch. He was seated on a bed upstairs, the mattress sinking beneath the weight of his iron armor, his long ashen fingers leafing through the pages of a battered journal when he heard the door open and an unfamiliar voice greet the porter. Modryn closed the book noisily and tucked it carefully between two tomes on the bookshelf, where it looked no more out of place than the nearby copy of _The Argonian Account, Book Two. _He forced a loose black hair back into his tall mohawk, straightened his belt, and stepped over to the stairs to intercept the newcomer.

Modryn, not entirely sure what he had expected, found himself disagreeably intrigued by the young Imperial who ascended the stairs. He looked undeniably Colovian, with broad features and a slender nose, and even more undeniably new, with a suit of old steel armor that to anyone with basic heavy armor proficiency looked half a size too small for his frame. Modryn almost dismissed him as careless, but given the way his beard was neatly trimmed to hug his jaw and his armor clean of any noticeable dirt he decided that he was simply making do instead – although he wasn't entirely sure which was worse.

The Dunmer quirked his gaze toward the porter, who met his eyes and backed nervously away from the foot of the stairs. He turned his attention back to the Imperial. "I'm Modryn Oreyn, Fighters Guild Champion. Who are you?" he said, before the Imperial's parted lips could utter their first sound.

His thick brown eyebrows lifted with surprise, and for a moment Modryn thought it entirely possible for his grey eyes to pop straight out of his head and roll onto the floor. This made the mer squint harder as he tried not to smirk at the image as it lingered in the corners of his mind. The Imperial straightened and inclined his head somewhat. "I am Salvius Tullius," he answered. "I've been called upon by the Guildmaster."

Modryn let his eyes examine the sorry excuse for an Imperial from head to toe. He, of course, knew everything that happened in his guild, including that Vilena had written to Azzan about his so-called "promising young farmer" – and had in fact been expecting him – but there was no need to let him know this. His lips tightened. _"_Were you, now?"

Salvius Tullius said, very clearly and strongly, "Yes, sir."

"Well," said Modryn, in a tone that made it clear he found it hard to believe, "you can find her upstairs in the company office. Show some respect when you're there, boot."

"Yes, sir," replied Salvius again.

Modryn realized he had never heard himself called "sir" so many times, especially when preceded by "yes," and whimsically thought that if he never heard it again it would be too soon. He folded his arms tight across his chest and watched as the Imperial clunked up the stairs, one hand carefully placed on the hilt of his longsword as it thumped against his leg.

He lingered near the top of the first flight of stairs, allowing his red eyes to wash lazily over the downstairs room as his long elven ears easily filtered through the noise to find the voices murmuring in the office loft. If there was one thing about the Chorrol guild hall that he liked, it was how painfully easy it was for him to eavesdrop, and how Vilena Donton made no intention of ignoring that he frequently did so.

Modryn leaned against the wall, folding one ankle over the other, and listened.

"I will do what is necessary of me, Guildmaster," Salvius was saying in his bold, respectful tone that Modryn longed to crack.

Vilena's matronly voice drifted through the wooden planks with tones of satisfaction. "Good. Your dedication is appreciated, Journeyman. We are a brotherhood, a family. What affects one of us affects us all. Fighting, drunkenness, dereliction of duty are not tolerated."

There was a pause. Modryn did not have to be physically present to feel the chill of the Guildmaster's chestnut eyes searching Salvius' with an unspoken but grave warning.

Footsteps echoed above. "I would like you to speak with Modryn Oreyn. He will assign you any duties that are currently pending."

"Of course, Guildmaster."

Modryn rolled his eyes.

"Good luck to you, and go to it, Salvius."

He straightened as the footsteps echoed again. Salvius appeared on the stairs to his right, his heavy boots clanking and causing the wood to creak gently beneath the weight. The mer ignored him, listening instead for some sign from Vilena up above, but all was silent. No doubt she was now listening to _him_, a thought that made him smirk to himself with satisfaction. _Very well, Guildmaster_, he thought.

Salvius had come to a halt before the Champion and was waiting patiently, one hand still firmly grasping the hilt of the sword at his side. Recommended by the Guardians or not, if he was going to be his own personal hound, it was time for the Dunmer to test his resilience, for his sake and the sake of the guild that he alone had been shouldering.

Modryn looked at the Imperial impatiently, his thin eyebrows drawn in a tight V above his fiery eyes. "What do you want?" he snapped. "I suppose you've come looking for duties, huh?"

Salvius tried his best not to hesitate, but all the same he fumbled over the simplest of words as they escaped his lips. "Yes, sir."

Again with the formalities. The mer released a deep breath through his nostrils and regarded Salvius in such a way as to make the Imperial certain he had never met a man who disliked him more until this very moment. "Duties for you. Fine." His voice was low and decidedly bored. He eased his fingers over the pole of the mace at his side like it was the skin of a drum, striking up a dull crescendo beneath his words. "I'll speak slowly so you can keep up."

Salvius tried his best not to look anything less than intrigued.

"I want you to find Maglir."

"Maglir, sir?" replied Salvius.

The sour twist of Modryn's purple lips told Salvius he had already said too much. "Yes," replied the Dunmer with an irritated sigh. "He's one of your Fighters Guild brothers, but he's defaulted on a contract. We can't allow that. Makes us all look bad."

The Imperial nodded in agreement.

"He didn't finish out a contract in Skingrad. Suppose I shouldn't be surprised. He's raw, like you. Go and find out what's wrong with him."

Salvius, who looked admirably determined despite the unsure look in his eyes, nodded again, but he did not move. If he was expecting from the Champion more information about who, exactly, Maglir might be, he was horribly mistaken, and Modryn was determined to make sure he didn't make the same mistake twice.

"Well, don't just stand there," said Modryn impatiently, waving the backside of his hand toward Salvius as if he was nothing more than a mudcrab. He scowled. "_Move_."

"Yes, sir," murmured Salvius once more as he hurried down the steps and out the door.

Modryn watched from the second floor without the slightest change in his expression. He heard the sound of new feet upon the steps behind him but pretended not to notice until he saw Vilena appear on the corner of his field of vision. He turned toward her with a respectful nod, his arms folded tight across his chest.

She looked older than Modryn remembered. It was not just her grey hair or the fact that she could no longer shoulder more than her cuirass. There was something about her that leaked into the air and made him breathe in age and weariness. He imagined that they all looked older these past few months following the oldest Donton boy's death, plagued by the same black circles under their eyes and the profound wrinkles flanking the edges of their lips, but the Guildmaster alone reminded him that they were not the youthful fighters that once could single-handedly clear a cave of minotaurs. Not that he couldn't if given the chance, Modryn hurriedly reassured himself. He regarded her wordless and expectant stare and looked away.

There was a moment of silence between the Imperial and Dunmer. "I suppose he's all right," he said at last.

Vilena laughed and placed her hand gently on his forearm. "Don't say things you don't mean, Modryn," she cheekily said.

Modryn couldn't help but grin. "Well," he admitted, "he is a bit of a simpleton. Not the dullest boy I've ever met, though. Could be worse I suppose."

The Guildmaster gave his arm a small squeeze before turning about again. "Simpleton or not, see to it that our Journeyman takes care of his duties. We cannot afford to have our members acting as they are."

"No," muttered Modryn drearily, long after Vilena had returned to her office and was out of earshot. "We cannot." He lowered his gaze and drew his hands into fists so tight his knuckles turned white. "_I _cannot, Guildmaster. Nor can I keep doing it alone."

But until the right moment and the right person came, Modryn Oreyn would have to do just that.


End file.
